I don’t care how your body looks.
Do not complain to me how it isn’t this way or that.
Tell me, woman, what it does.
Tell me how it blooms under a lover’s friction.
Tell me how at its dark, pulsing center you pull souls into being
through your bliss.
Tell me how the moon, in all her vastness, tethers to your vessel.
Tell me of the many shades of blush that cast across your face
when properly adored by men and God alike.
Tell me about the phenomena of your tastebuds
and how they miraculously exist in the same dimension as figs,
peaches, passionfruit, cacao, bright bitter sencha, gods-disguised-as-humans…
Tell me how a child born of sex magic can be nourished by
ambrosia that pours from you without your deliberate doing.
Tell me about the romance between your body and a perfectly placed song
and how it effortlessly translates the ecstasy of sound.
Tell me how delaying its pleasure playfully competes
with instant gratification, and how your hunger is somehow
just as delectable as your satisfaction.
And tell me, finally, how this holy body walks you from birth to death, healing every ailment, wound, and bruise - seen and unseen - the whole way through, until it Returns To Sender this container of red water, earth and divinity once again.
And when you think about it,
and you let yourself really feel about it,
you are relieved to notice that
not
a single
one
of those
corporeal experiences
has anything to do
with how this body looks.
So no,
do not complain to me of appearances,
for all I see is a miracle of pleasure.
- Kadhi Bo
I wrote this piece while listening to this song on repeat. Enjoy.